


Acquiesce

by Savageandwise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: All that stuff, Angst, Death, F/M, Fix-It, Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-03-08 15:57:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18897904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savageandwise/pseuds/Savageandwise
Summary: "Midway upon the journey of our lifeI found myself within a forest dark,For the straightforward pathway had been lost."- Dante AlighieriJaime chooses between two paths.





	1. Oh, what'll you do now, my blue eyed son?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whereitwillgo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whereitwillgo/gifts).



> Yeah, this is a fix it. I've been distraught about Jaime's character development and here it is my attempt. Or whatever. unbowed, unbent, unbetaed.

It's a winter love. None of that butterflies in the stomach, head in the clouds nonsense. It's not what he had with Cersei, that bright flame devouring everything, that wildfire flare. It's a soft glow in the gloom. Perhaps it's because he's older now. He's suffered losses. His children. His hand. He's not the man he was. Maybe this is the only way this sort of man can experience love. Not as passion but as quiet respectfulness. The sort of chivalrous admiration men once wrote ballads about. It's a winter love.

That's a lie.

His stomach is in knots. He can't look at her without seeing her in the bathhouse. Without seeing all that pale skin, all the places she was soft and overblown, hard and calloused. Men don't think the likes of her beautiful. But he's not the man he was. Was there ever anything as lovely as the look on her face after he bade her arise? If he lost his sight tomorrow he wouldn't care. He's seen that smile upon her lips, the light of it transforming her features. Cersei can't hold a candle to her. He doesn't need to see anything else again.

Besides, Jaime can feel her enter the room before he even sets eyes on her. He knows she's there because his skin tingles with it.

"Ser Jaime," Brienne says.

He stands awkwardly, he's removed his armour and he feels so small in his shirt and worn britches. He can see his reflection in the polished metal mirror, that dark blond hair, that unkempt beard. He was golden once. They wrote poems about his beauty. Maidens wept when they saw him ride to joust. They wept that he would never be theirs. They didn't know he was hers, his summer queen, his Cersei. Now he is dull, faded and shrunken. He's no longer the man he was, shining with beauty and fortune. Once upon a time he thought Brienne plain. Now it's she who shines. 

"My Lady," he says at last. He took so long to answer she's staring at him. "How may I serve you?"

She looks startled. "You've done so much already. I don't know how to thank you." 

She looks so fucking earnest he can barely look at her. If she knew the thoughts that plague him. He imagines stroking her long, muscled legs, the yellow hair dusting them soft beneath the rough fingers of his remaining hand. The corn silk nest between those legs. He wonders what she tastes of down there. He's never wondered that of any woman before. Cersei tastes of secrets and summer evenings. Of the sticky sweet grapes left too long on the vine, left after the first killing frost of winter.

"It was the right thing to do," Jaime said. "You earned it."

She's looking at him, grateful and admiring and altogether too trusting. She's forgotten who he is. The Kingsguard who slew a king, who crippled a child in the name of love, a man without honour. 

"I've come because of Pod," she says after a long moment. "He deserves to fight by my side. If you would help me to keep him alive?"

"Of course," he waves her words away. "Of course I will."

She nods and turns back towards the door, practically sprints for it.

"Brienne- My Lady," he calls out. "Stay a moment, please."

His words come out hurried and strangled and desperate. His intentions are so clear his face burns with shame. His hand, his golden hand, touches her sleeve and she looks down in alarm. 

"You should get some rest, Jaime," she says softly. "We both should. They say the dead never tire. But we do."

"Stay a moment," he repeats.

He tries to think of soft, sweet words to tempt her. He thinks he might tell her how lovely she is, how precious to him. But the lines seem crude and untrue. He doesn't know how to make love to a woman with words. He's never had to. It's a winter love. There is no time for sweet nothings murmured at dusk. He leans forward and lifts himself on to his toes so that he might brush her mouth with his own. She pushes him away gently.

"Soon we face our death," she whispers. "I'll pray to the Seven for you. If you pray for me."

It's a refusal but he can't fault her. He's a hateful man and she is a maiden. It is too much to hope she might want his kiss before they die. He nods slowly and lets her leave. It's a winter love. He is content to love her on his own. His song like the unaccompanied trill of the evening grosbeak at dawn. Soon it will be far too cold here for even these birds to survive. 

He had set aside the faint hope that love might be reciprocated when the dead attack. He thought he sang alone, he was mistaken. Each blow of Oathkeeper is a clear, high note. She dances before him, cuts down the wight intent on dispatching him. A scarlet flush stains her cheeks, her eyes blaze. He doesn't understand how he could have ever thought her plain. When they get through the night alive it feels like something has changed. Like the morning after you lost your virginity. Everything is the same, but it is not. He can't look at her without colouring, thinking of the weight of her body against his as they fought side by side, the sound of their armour clashing when they came too near. Her warm breath against his cold face. The intimacy of fighting by her side even goes beyond what he knew in his sister's bed. Because this was his choice. Because he came here to fight under her command, die if he must. It's the first real decision of his life. In the winter of his years. Cersei was fated. Cersei was his destiny. He's done with destiny. He chooses Brienne of Tarth.

He knows beyond a doubt what he wants now but when he sees her again he's tongue tied and foolish. Everyone is drunk on survival, he's no exception. He lets Tyrion do most of the talking because that's what his brother is best at. To his surprise Brienne goes along with Tyrion's silly drinking game, she's laughing, joking and it feels like everyone is watching them. It's the playfulness that disarms him. He's never know this. Casual, silly flirtation. Everything with Cersei is life and death. And all at once Jaime wonders if he's got it backwards. Cersei's love was the barrens of winter. Brienne is the promise of spring. 

Tyrion never did know when to stop. For a man who claims to know so much about women he didn't know not to pick at that wound. 

"You're a virgin," Tyrion says.

Jaime feels his stomach squirm with shame, he's slightly aroused, too, looking at her pale face, those bright blue eyes, round as buttons, her mouth agape with shock. When she stands and excuses herself he's flustered. He's never had to take charge like this before, it's always been rather inevitable. He realises if he doesn't say something now it may never happen. The thought is so cruel it strikes at the very core of him.

When he gets to her room and she lets him in he realises two things: the first is that this is not a fantasy. It's real. He's in the lady's bedchamber in the middle of the night. The second is that he hasn't the faintest idea how to go about seducing a lady. He's never had to. In all his years, for all the offers he's received, he's only known one woman: Cersei.

He goes about it all wrong, naturally. Starting off by insulting her and then promptly removing his jacket. He's loud, boorish, forward, menacing even. He's so nervous his knees are knocking. She's flustered and demure, then all at once she's irritated. Her hands are at his collar unfastening his shirt. He's forgotten to be nervous. How can he be, with her? He realises what's missing is that tight knot of anxiety he always felt in the pit of his stomach whenever he was with Cersei. The fear that this time would be the last time. He doesn't feel like that now.

"What are you doing?" she asks.

What I should have done ages ago, Jaime thinks. 

He has to stand on tiptoes to reach her lips, this statue of a woman, and he thinks it's glorious.

"I've never slept with anyone," she says. 

She's chosen him. She wants him. That's all he cares about. There's a tug of war quality to their lovemaking that he finds titillating. Cersei was always the stronger twin. She decided what games to play, what food they liked. It was Cersei who chose the day they lost their virginity. But when they lay together she let him take the lead, she let him choose the games. Brienne dances between passion and shyness. She touches him and then draws back again.

"No, don't stop," he begs her.

"What if I get it wrong?" she stutters.

"You can't," he says plainly. At this rate he won't last long enough to deflower her.

When he does it's sweet. She's both hard and soft, harsh and gentle. And all the things that should feel wrong with her, feel so very right. In her arms he forgets Jaime Lannister. He forgets all the things that bind. He's finally who he's always wanted to be.

"Is that how it always is?" Brienne asks, her face flushed red, she's awkward in his arms, after.

"No," he admits. 

She tries to turn away, her broad, beautiful face creased with emotion and he takes her hand. 

"I'd promise it gets better but I wouldn't know. All I know is her."

Her lips trembles and she pulls her hand from his grasp.

"Oh!" he exclaims, sitting up in bed, the furs are sticky, stained with their lovemaking. Fuck the North. "You think I'm saying...do you think I'm saying it was bad?"

"Was it?" she asks, her eyes glittering with tears she's trying hard to hold back.

"Was it?" He turns her question back on her.

She shakes her head quickly and he pulls her back into his arms. "Brienne, sweet lady."

She laughs bitterly. "You mock me. Don't." 

"Ser Knight, then," he says, looking straight into her eyes. He says it as earnestly as he can. 

This is where he should tell her what she means to him. But he's only ever told one woman that he loves her. The words stick in his throat. And anyway, Brienne of Tarth is a woman of actions, not pretty words. He takes her hand again and kisses her palm.

"I know you didn't do this lightly," he says. "You should know I didn't either." 

He kisses her hand again and she lifts it to cup his face. "I know that," she murmurs.

She's struggling to say something, her eyes full of shadows.

"It was good," he blurts out then covers his face with his golden hand. "Forgive me, I'm not a poet."

He slides his good hand over the pale skin of her stomach down to the golden thatch of hair between her legs. She stiffens a moment when he rubs his fingers against that bud of pleasure.

"I was clumsy with desire. Let me show you how it can be. Will you let me?"

"Yes," she breathes.


	2. Tangled up in blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the dead are defeated, Jaime and Brienne carve out a small measure of happiness together until Jaime is forced to confront his past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been struggling to make this work. The show hasn't made it easy. Anyway. That's probably why the writing is abysmal but frankly I don't care anymore 
> 
> The chapter titles are from Bob Dylan songs.

He dreams of Cersei most nights. In his dreams she still has her long hair, bright as gold and soft as silk. It catches flame like dry parchment and dances in the wind as she burns. He wakes up bathed in sweat and breathing hard. Beside him Brienne sleeps fitfully, her forehead wrinkled as if she's puzzling over problems she failed to solve while awake. He hasn't slept in his own chambers for over a week. All the servants know already, they bring him his breakfast here, messages from his brother, his laundered clothing. He doesn't care who knows he's fucking her, but he worries about her reputation. He's still the Kingslayer. Still the man who betrayed his queen, even if it was to save lives.

"I don't care about them," Brienne laughs when he tells her his thoughts. "We survived the dead. Let them talk."

She spends most of the day with Sansa and he spends his time helping in the armoury, as best he can. Or consulting with Tyrion and Varys and Jon Snow. They're preparing to march south as soon as they can. Jaime isn't going with them. He doesn't bother making an excuse. He's staying for Brienne. He's not much help at all but they keep him around anyway. Keep your enemies close. He fought for them but he's still an enemy. 

He learns that Brienne likes blackberry preserves best, plum when she can't get berries and she eats her eggs runny. She sings sometimes when she cleans her armour in a slightly flat, throaty voice, but only when she thinks he isn't listening. She likes to try to make him laugh by telling him stories of her childhood. She leaves out the bits where she was teased and bullied, laughed at for her plain face and large body. He wants to tell her his own tales but they're all about Cersei. 

He tells her about Tyrion instead. How he'd loved his little brother from the minute he'd laid eyes on him. The tiny hands and feet, the dimpled knees and elbows. He hadn't cared the child was deformed. He could make the little lad laugh. He used to carry him around and pretend he was his, his and Cersei's. Cersei hated Tyrion, she'd talk about drowning him like an unwanted kitten, smothering him with his own pillow. She blamed him for their mother's death. But Jaime couldn't see how that tiny, red faced creature could be at fault. Besides, he'd already learned the world wasn't a fair place. Good people died, people you cared about. Bad deeds were rewarded. There was nothing a bit of money couldn't fix. He already knew the way he loved his sister wasn't natural. He knew he would never know happiness. There was nothing fair about the world they lived in.

He's happy now. Happier than he ever thought he could be. He brings her a small gifts: an apple, a bit of honeycomb, a handful of sweet dried apricots, anything to see her smile. Sometimes he surprises her during the day, steals a kiss when Sansa's back is turned. He wants her all the time now, with the sharp, aching desire you feel when you're newly in love. Except that it's not new. He's loved her for ages. At night they lose themselves to pleasure, every time is better as they grow accustomed to each other's bodies the way you might grow accustomed to a new blade. Learn its balance and heft, how to use it's length to your advantage. They make love in the mornings too. Half asleep, he falls against her, urgently hard and desperate to sheath himself in her. He wakes from nightmares, Cersei's image burning behind his eyelids and Brienne flips him on his back and straddles him, impaling herself on his swollen cock. She rides him fiercely, cheeks flushed, eyes blazing. Like a wild woman from beyond the wall. When she comes she leans down low to kiss his mouth and he spills inside her, tears trickling from the corners of his eyes.

They talk about the future sometimes. She's reluctant to talk about a life that doesn't include Sansa and the vow she made to her mother. But she tells him she'd like to see him ride out in the summer sun, see the Lannister gold return to his hair. He says he'd like to see Tarth again. Maybe she can take him there. She's startled by his words.

"I thought I might meet your father," he explains sheepishly.

She narrows her eyes at his words and gives him a small vague smile. There was never any question for him. If they make it out of this alive, once Daenerys is safely on the throne, he would offer her his hand. If she'll have him. If she can lower herself to his level. When he lets himself dream of it she's never in a bridal gown. She's in armour that gleams like the sapphire waters of tarth when the sun hits the waves. The twin Valyrian blades are their wedding rings.

The armies should be reaching King's Landing soon. Perhaps they're there already. Perhaps they've locked Cersei away somewhere, preparing for her trial. He wonders if they'll be lenient for the baby's sake. He still hasn't told Brienne about the baby. He doesn't know how to mention it without spoiling everything. The baby isn't real to him yet. None of them were really real to him until Myrcella died in his arms. When he tells Brienne about the child she'll pull away. She'll misunderstand the whole bloody thing and he isn't sure how to tell her that it doesn't change a thing. Jaime loves Brienne. He just can't say the words out loud.

"If you were truly honourable as Brienne assures me you are, you'd make her an offer," Sansa says irritably one morning in the courtyard. 

Brienne has fallen back to speak to someone about the temperature in Lady Stark's chambers and Sansa drags him aside all but pulling on one ear like a shrill fishwife. He remembers the girl Sansa had been, betrothed to his son. Shallow, conniving and materialistic. She'd reminded him of Cersei. She's a true leader now, one worthy of respect. Worthy of Brienne's devotion.

"I mean to, my lady," he assures her.

"She should be with someone who knows her worth. Someone who will treat her like the jewel she is. Someone who deserves her." 

Her eyes flash and he thinks of Lyanna Stark, Sansa's aunt. He'd only met her a handful of times but he'd found her to be very different from the supposedly pale, sweet, helpless damsel Robert had fought to liberate from Rhaegar's clutches.

"I know I don't deserve her, my lady. But I will do everything in my power to make her happy."

"I suppose the admiration of a person such as Brienne is precious currency to a man like you. She thinks you're a man of honour. Must feel good, Kingslayer." There is no venom in Sansa's words.

"I love her," Jaime says simply.

Sansa's pale cheeks flush violently. "How easily men speak of love when it suits them."

He wonders if she's thinking of her brother and his Targaryen queen. If there is some jealousy there. It wouldn't be the first time a sister coveted the affections of her brother. But who is Jaime to judge her.

"I am not the sort of man to speak lightly of love."

Sansa stares at him a while, her pale eyes unblinking as a wolf's. "No," she agrees. "I don't believe you are. Don't disappoint me."

He's made up his mind to tell her when the news comes of Daenerys' defeat at King's Landing. It's Brienne who tells him the news. Sansa is cruel, driving home the killing blow. She's clearly angry about something else entirely and lashing out at him. Daenerys Targaryen's folly has put her precious brother in danger. Daenerys is too far away to feel Sansa's wrath. Jaime is here, disarmed by love, an easy target.

"I hoped to be there when they execute your sister." 

Brienne's eyes flash with alarm but she doesn't stop to talk to him, she follows her Lady into the hall.

The truth was he hadn't thought his far. He hadn't thought beyond fighting the dead. He'd never expected to live. Of course he knew they would kill Cersei if they won the throne, of course. Jaime had hoped for the opportunity to intervene on her behalf. A stay of execution on account of her delicate state. He'd begged Tyrion to speak to Daenerys about it. Daenerys Stormborn, breaker of chains, mother of dragons. To hear Tyrion speak she was here to change the world, to make it better. Wouldn't someone like that show mercy? That was before Cersei shot the dragon down and slaughtered the slave girl. Cersei has backed the Dragon Queen into a corner and chances are, there will be no mercy. 

And if Daenerys doesn't win? If Cersei is victorious? She'll marry that rat faced pirate and raise their child Ironborn. She'll have him executed for treason. A slower death than a bolt to the chest with a crossbow.

He realises neither Daenerys nor Cersei are the sort to give up easily. Both will stop at nothing to secure their throne. He thinks of Drogon, his needle sharp teeth gleaming, that red slab of a tongue. He thinks of the Sept, of all those people burning in the green flames. Tyrion thinks Cersei will surrender to protect the baby. But if she doesn't? The baby isn't the only innocent in King's Landing. A good five hundred thousand people live in King's Landing. People he gave up his honour to protect when he killed Daenerys' father. People who are now caught between two queens.

The truth is he doesn't trust Tyrion to do what needs to be done. The dwarf is blind to his queen's failings. And though he thinks he's the cleverest man in Westeros. He still underestimates their sister. But Jaime could do it, he could get through to Cersei. He should be there now. Easier said than done.

He's still lost in thought when Brienne returns to her chamber. She watches him cautiously like he's a lion in the bush she'd rather not provoke for fear of being mauled. Supper is a rather overcooked stew and Jaime is grateful for it. He doesn't want to have to ask for her help cutting his meat or eat like some godforsaken Wildling. He's halfway through his bowl of stew when she throws her spoon at him. He ducks, covering his head with his arms.

"What was that for?" Jaime roars.

"Why are you here?" Brienne demands. It's practically a bark, she sounds like a commanding officer, not a lover. He fights the urge to stand to attention and salute her with his sword.

"You know why," he says evenly, leaning back in his chair.

"To fight under my command. That's it? You came north, left your sister, committed treason in her eyes because you…" She can't seem to finish the sentence. 

He finishes it for her. "...because I thought we were all going to die." 

She stands abruptly, rattling the table as she does. His goblet of wine topples over and it's deep red contents seep out, spoiling everything, pooling on the wooden surface like blood.

"You knew the dead were coming and you came here to fight with me," she says slowly as if she's trying to make sense of it.

"I've told you this before. More than once. Why have you brought this up now?" Jaime asks.

He'd bet his remaining hand this is about Cersei. About Sansa bloody Stark's taunt. It's planted a seed of doubt in Brienne's mind. It's planted a seed of doubt in his own mind. The happiness they've known these long weeks has been an illusion. There can be no true happiness for them if he can't put things right with Cersei. If he can't protect her from the Dragon Queen. From herself. Protect the innocent they will destroy between the two of them.

"Because it seems to me all at once there's somewhere else you'd rather be," she says, crossing her arms over her chest. She's no fool, Brienne of Tarth. She's read him like a book. "You're going back to King's Landing, aren't you? Back to her." There's heartbreak in her voice and anger like twin vipers.

She wants him to deny it. Wants him to swear he'll never leave. Cersei used to love this game. She'd tell him he didn't love her and he'd protest. She'd shake her golden head, her sweet lips trembling with feigned sorrow. 

"No," she'd say, her eyes wide. "I don't think you do," she'd pout.

Jaime is sick of games. Even if Brienne isn't aware she's playing one.

"I thought we were all going to die and I wanted to die with you. Don't you understand?" He's practically shouting now but Brienne doesn't draw back in fear. 

She holds her ground, shaking her her head. "I saw your face when Sansa spoke of execution. You love her," she says.

"Sansa? Don't be absurd. I barely know the girl." He laughs awkwardly, giving her a foolish grin worthy of the man Cersei called the stupidest Lannister.

"Don't mock me," she says in a low voice trembling with anger. "Your sister...you love her still, despite everything. Despite what you're saying now about fighting and dying with me. I'm not some wide-eyed farm girl to be taken in by pretty words. You love her and right now... right at this moment you're trying to figure out some way to save her and you'll probably be killed for your effort. I know she sent a man to kill you."

"Tyrion needs to learn to hold his tongue," Jaime mutters.

"She wants you dead and you still want to save her," Brienne says accusingly.

"Yes. I love her. I always have. From my very first breath. I loved her unconditionally. I ruined myself for that love, quite cheerfully."

He's at her side before he can stop himself, falls to his knees at her feet.

"Oh, get up you fool!" Brienne exclaims. She holds out her hand to help him up and he takes it in his own, making no move to rise to his feet.

"But you're not asking me the right questions. Brienne. You're not asking me why I chose you. I chose you over her. You see that, don't you? You're blind," he says in an impassioned tone. He's holding fast to her hand, his thumb sliding over her knuckles gently.

"I do," she says reluctantly. "I see it. Get up, you idiot. Before someone walks in and thinks you're asking for my hand in marriage."

He holds her gaze steadfastly until she turns away, her face flushed scarlet to the roots of her yellow hair. This isn't how he meant to do this. He'd meant to make some romantic gesture. He'd meant to do things properly for a change.

"You can't," she whispers, pulling back her hand.

"Can't I?" he asks springing to his feet. He sounds like a spoilt child.

Brienne rolls her eyes at him. "You love your sister but you're asking me to be your wife. No, scratch that. You haven't asked. You're on your knees not asking. A sorry attempt at misdirection. How do you intend to save her? How dare you use my love for you against me!" she shouts.

He blinks in disbelief. "You love me?" 

"Who is blind now?" she spits bitterly.

He's silent for a moment, struggling to find the words to explain what he feels. 

"You once told me the worst thing in the world was to be forced stand by helplessly while the person you love is killed. How can I be worthy of you if I don't try to save her? If I don't stop her."

"You've lost me. I'm far too simple to understand the labyrinthine workings of your mind, my lord," Brienne says dully.

He doesn't know if he understands it himself.

"I'm trying be honest…" he stutters.

"Yes. You're failing miserably, aren't you?" she interrupts him.

"I'm trying to make you understand…" he starts again.

Brienne holds her hand up to stop his words.  
"...that you choose me but you choose her. You haven't made any choice!" she finishes for him, her voice high and strained. 

"...that I love you! I love you!" he blurts out.

She's pale as snow, pale as death. Silent at long last.

"Jaime," she says warningly after a beat, in a voice so soft he thinks he's imagined it. She called him Kingslayer once. No one else says his name quite like Brienne.

He wishes he were a poet instead of a knight. He wishes he were built to craft songs rather than war. 'I love you' sounds so hollow. He wants to tell her she saved him. She made him believe he could be a man of honour. That he can be man she believes him to be. And that's the reason he needs to leave. 

"I love you," he says again, because it's easier every time he says it. And it's true.


	3. It ain't me you're lookin' for, Babe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime makes a declaration and a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took me so long to continue this. Real life got in the way. Also it was really hard to untangle some of the writing decisions the show made. I decided not to use the dialogue from episode 4 one to one since I needed to change the tone of the scene slightly.
> 
> There's going to be a last chapter after this so don't worry too much about the end of this one!
> 
> please comment! I'm not too ashamed to beg!

"And now you're going to leave me for that giantess from Tarth," Cersei had said, her lip curled in disgust. "Have a brood of hideous ogre children."

He'd protested of course. Cersei's hand had been wrapped around his flaccid cock. She'd pulled away and covered herself in a dressing gown threaded with green and gold. Her eyes had shone like emeralds. 

"Oh, Jaime," she'd cooed. "You're so honourable. So handsome. Poor girl. Never had a chance, did she?"

He'd thanked her kindly to shut her foul mouth. 

"Does she get you hard? I certainly can't. Did you lose your manhood along with your sword hand?"

He'd pulled on his clothes hastily in silence not even bothering with his boots. 

"Are you in love with that big brute of a woman? Is that it?" she'd called out.

Cersei had known before he did. He'd fucked her after that, just as she'd known he would. And when it was done he'd felt disgusted. He felt like he'd been weak, betrayed himself. Why didn't he ever feel like that with Brienne? He'd left for that reason as much as Cersei refusing to send the troops north. He had seen beauty beyond Cersei's golden gleam and now he could never unsee it.

They lie down on Brienne's bed without removing their clothes. She's trembling from head to toe. When he took her virginity she wasn't this nervous. When they fought the dead she was fearless. Tears slide down her face silently.

"I've upset you," he whispers. "Generally, declarations of love are received with joy, you know."

Declarations of love from better men than Jaime Lannister.

She hiccups with laughter. And he leans in to wipe her face with his sleeve. "That's a little better."

"I used to dream of this, you know. As girl on Tarth," she says softly.

"You dreamed a dishonourable, one handed Lannister knight who fathered four children with his sister asked you to be his wife? Quite an unusual dream for a decent girl of noble blood to have," he quips.

She lets out an unladylike snort. "Can't you ever be serious?"

"I'm serious all the time."

She gives him a small sad smile. "Four children?" she asks.

Jaime shuts his eyes. "Caught that, did you?"

"Oh, Jaime...is that why?" She grips his shoulders, shakes him gently.

He shuts his eyes, he can't bear to look at her face, blue eyes wide and sad, brow creased. He wants love to be simple for once. He wants one fucking moment with the woman he loves without Cersei to muddy it.

"She told me she was pregnant. If it's true it would be our only surviving child. If it survives."

"If it's true? Would she lie about such a thing?" Brienne asks.

Cersei would lie about anything. Especially if she could sense he was pulling away from her. For a moment he wishes he had lied. Brienne's mouth is a thin, straight line, she's waiting for him to answer.

"She might. I thought so at the time. It doesn't matter now."

He stretches out his good hand to trace the line of her face. He wants to go back to love declarations and tears of joy.

"You think Cersei won't give up without a fight, you think she'll put herself...the baby...in danger," Brienne says slowly.

"I think she'll put King's Landing in danger. I think she'll put the baby in danger. Don't you see? I have to go."

He thinks for a moment she might pull away and leave but this is her chamber, where would she go?

"Let me go with you then," she says, her voice breaking. 

"But Sansa…" Jaime begins.

"Sansa will understand. I'll make her understand," Brienne insists.

Jaime shakes his head and sits up. "It's too dangerous."

"Is this how you thought it would go? You'd say you love me and I'd wait here for you?" 

He forgot that Brienne argues like she does battle. Each blow direct, deliberate. She cuts through all the nonsense with a single down-stroke, parries each attack without fumbling. It can't have been easy to create herself, to practice until her blisters burst, her muscles cramped. To hear again and again she would fail until she became the woman in his arms tonight. Jaime too shaped himself against all odds, for different reasons.

"Sansa…" he starts again, knowing she'll only interrupt him again.

"You leave Sansa out of this. You're going to get yourself killed and you haven't even asked me properly."

"Oh, now you want to do things properly. Now you want me to sail to Tarth, ask your father if he'll give you to me?" he says with a sneer. "Like you're a horse."

"Ask me. If that's what you really want."

"Don't you care about the baby?" he asks incredulously.

"Of course I care! But you came anyway. She told you she was pregnant and you came here anyway. For me." There's wonder in her voice, pride, love.

Jaime nods. He pulls her back down onto the pillow and kisses her lips gently. "Will you have me?" he asks. "I'm...nothing...broken...a hateful, flawed man but I love you."

He curls his good hand against her bright hair, feels it silken-smooth against his fingertips. Her lips are trembling, he wants to kiss her but he wants to hear her answer more. "Please say yes," he begs. "Brienne. Say yes."

Her eyes are sharp, brilliant blue and full of tears, she seems to look straight into him. For a terrible moment he's afraid she's seen all the horrible things he's done, all the terrible things he wanted to do. She's going to say no.

"Yes. Yes, I will," she whispers. "And you're not nothing. You're a good man."

He kisses her then, before she can go on. He's not a good man, not even close, but if she can love him, if she can choose him then maybe there's hope. Her hands are at his collar, pulling on the ties and then working the shirt up over his head. She removes her own shirt and he puts his cheek to her naked breast to hear the beat of her heart. She's alive and so is he, more alive than he's been in years. They make love, slowly, deliberately. He holds back as long as he can and then spends inside her, her name on his lips. Sweat cooling on their skin, they lie in each other's arms, too drunk on pleasure to speak coherently.

"You will be Lady Lannister, can you reconcile yourself to the name?" he asks.

"It's your name," Brienne says. "I would take it proudly.

That night Jaime dreams of the dragons below the Red Keep. He breathes in the damp, that dead-rodent stench, the acrid smell of wildfire. The bleached skulls of those great ancient beasts look down at him, only blackness where their eyes used to be. They know what he's done, what he still will do if anything he loved is threatened, they can see him the way he truly is.

"You don't know me. No one does!" he calls out.

The roar that answers him reminds him of the winds in Winterfell, the roar of a hundred thousand undead feet trudging in the northern snow. The roar of dragons wings overhead in the pitch black sky. Jaime is almost knocked off his feet, he reaches out for something solid to steady himself. He wakes, gasping for breath, Brienne tight in his arms. 

"King's Landing," Jaime says deliriously. "I saw the Red Keep."

"I'll speak with Sansa in the morning. We'll go there," she assures him.

He loosens his hold slightly and she puts a cool hand on his forehead. She thinks he's feverish, perhaps he's caught a chill. He lets her pull the furs up around his neck but doesn't let her fetch help. 

As he drifts in and out of sleep she murmurs something in his ear, no, she's singing. Her voice is low and flat. He can barely make out the tune. The words are something a boat serving as a cradle, the sapphire waters of Tarth rocking you to sleep. Let's go there, Jaime thinks, let's go now.

In the morning walking through the courtyard, he sees Bran in his chair. He's always startled to see Bran, his still, pinched face, his flat all-seeing eyes. The shame is sharper than ever despite Bran's words weeks ago. Despite his assurance Jaime helped him to fulfill his destiny. Bran is the embodiment of his greatest crime.

"I know you, Jaime Lannister," Bran says in a low voice, as if in answer to the words Jaime had uttered in his dream. "I see you."

"What do you see?" Jaime asks, his lips curling in disdain before he can stop himself.

"I see you want to do what is right. I see a changed man," Bran says.

Jaime can feel the weight of his words heavy as Aerys' sword on his shoulders when he was but a lad of ten and six. In some ways dishonour weighs less on the soul. But Jaime won't be that dishonourable man any longer.

"Tell me," Jaime says, bracing himself for the worst.

"You did get some of it right. You go there. You go to her." 

Not a muscle moves in Bran's face. Jaime feels horror, searing horror deep in his breast. He made this man. He broke him and made him into this. This, not the crippling of the lad is Jaime's greatest crime. How can there be redemption? How can there be a happy ending with Brienne on the Isle of Tarth? Knowing he made Bran into this?

"Your redemption is a small thing next to the lives of thousands of innocents," Bran says. There's some gentleness in his voice. "You can stop her. You can save them."

"Yes," Jaime agrees. "I can."

"Then you must go tonight. You must go alone."

"No...I...I made vows...I…" Jaime stutters. He wonders if Bran can see that truth as well. If he can gaze into his heart and see the love he has for Brienne and the love he has for Cersei, side by side. Fire and ice.

"If she goes with you she will die."

The finality of Bran's words is like a sword-thrust between the ribs. 

"You can't know that," Jaime gasps, though he knows that he can know it. He's not a man any longer, he's a monster, Jaime set him on this path with one quick push.

"I can. I do. I know that if she goes with you, she will perish in the flames. Green fire burning her until she's ash on the slow wind. You lost your honour to prevent deaths like hers."

"Then I must make her stay!" Jaime says, more to himself than to Bran.

"You must."

He scrambles to think of what he can say to Brienne that might make her stay behind now. He imagines that look on her face, the stubborn set of her jaw. And then something else occurs to him.

"I'm not coming back am I? I won't come back to Winterfell, will I? I'm going to die," Jaime says.

"You will not return to Winterfell," Bran agrees.

"I could take her how, flee to Essos. I could let everything burn."

"You could," Bran says, his voice smooth as Valyrian steel. "But you won't. The man you've become won't allow it."

The Seven take his crippled soul, the boy is right. He decides to slip away as soon as Brienne falls asleep that night. He feels like a coward and a cad but there is no other way.

All day he tries to put down his feelings in a letter. Words have always been his most insidious foe. They always get twisted in his head, come out wrong. He learned to read a full year after Cersei, Tyrion had been reading before Jaime was comfortable with his letters. Nothing he puts down on parchment sounds right. His reasoning falls flat.

He writes that he wants her to live. He wants her to forget about him. He writes that he was selfish when he followed her to her room. He should have known it was too good to be true. He writes that he loves her so many times the parchment is black with it. His handwriting is even poorer with his left hand. Jaime wishes he could give the note to Tyrion, have him correct his horrendous spelling. When he's done, he throws the note into the fireplace and waits for Brienne to return.

As soon as she enters the chamber, she tells him she has spoken with Sansa as promised. The Lady of Winterfell was deeply sceptical at first, even angry. She accused Brienne of running away with the first man to stick his cock in her. She calmed down considerably when Brienne explained why they were leaving–particularly when she mentioned Tyrion's strangely blinkered approach to Cersei. And the fact that he's in love with his Targaryen queen.

Brienne tells him they should wait till morning before they leave. A storm is due to hit during the night and they should wait until the snow has fallen. Jaime agrees, gratefully. She tells him he should try to sleep, the journey won't be an easy one. But Jaime is selfish. He wants to feel her one last time. He wants a memory he can carry with him when he faces death. He wants to die with the image of her burned behind his eyelids. He pushes her legs apart and slips between them, gives her pleasure with his mouth until she's shivering and moaning, red blossoming all over her white skin. After, he puts his head on her breast and she strokes his hair until she's caught her breath again. She pulls him into her, her strong legs wrapped around his waist, clasping him close. When he spills in her he tries to remember every second, every emotion flickering across her face. This will be the last time. 

He thinks back to the last time he fucked Cersei then he tries to think back to the last time he did so with any tenderness. It was a very, very long time ago. Before he lost his hand, before Brienne. He thinks back to the day of Joffrey's birth, how proud she'd been, how tender. And how he'd felt an ice shard in his heart. Here was someone she might love more than she loved him. He thinks about how much she loved her children, would have died for them. Cersei would never die to save Jaime's life the way he is willing to die for her. The way he knows Brienne would die for him. Will die for him unless he leaves her now and goes south on his own.

He waits until Brienne is fast asleep before he dresses himself and sets off. It takes longer of course, gathering provisions, saddling the horse, even putting on his damned boots. The man he was would have had no problem leaving without a proper goodbye. The man he's become feels a spasm in his heart as he fastens his saddlebags. He longs to dash back to the room they shared, drag her from her bed and flee with her. Fuck honour, fuck the right thing. 

She appears like a spectre in that dressing gown Sansa sewed for her, the one that makes her look like a goddess. There's an excuse on the tip of his tongue but he loves her too much to utter it. He doesn't dare catch her eye or his resolve will weaken.

"You're leaving without me," she accuses him. Her eyes are cold, almost black in the gloom. Dark as the waters of Tarth on an overcast day.

"Yes," he admits.

"We agreed…" she begins. "Look at me, Jaime. What happened? Did Sansa…? We agreed to go there together. To convince the Queen to surrender."

"I changed my mind."

He turns his attention back to the strap he's struggling with.

"Changed your mind?" she whispers. 

"That's right. She'll never survive a tribunal. They'll execute her. She will execute her. Burn her alive, child be damned and you know it," he says calmly, though his stomach is churning. 

"So you'll do what? Run away with her? What about...and what of...your promise to me?"

Jaime shuts his eyes. "I'm sorry."

"They're going to destroy that city," she says, her voice thick with emotion. "You know they will. She'll die and you'll die. You know it. "

He looks down at the frost hardened ground, sees her advance towards him. If she touches him he'll lose his resolve. She takes one step closer to him, catches his face between her hands. "Jaime, please. You don't have to do this. You deserve better. You deserve happiness."

_I deserve happiness._

The words hang in the air between them. She does deserve happiness. She deserves everything she ever dreamed of. A good man, a whole one. An uncomplicated man. He pulls away sharply.

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

"You're a good man, who deserves to live," she says, desperation creeping into her voice.

"You think I'm a good man?" Jaime scoffs. 

He lifts his chin and narrows his eyes at her and smiles. He knows he looks exactly like Cersei, like Tywin, when he does that. It's the Lannister blood. Even Tyrion has the same cool, arrogant smile. 

"I pushed a boy out of a window and crippled him. I did it gladly because Cersei asked me to. I strangled my cousin. For Cersei. I would have murdered every man, woman and child in Riverrun…"

"But you didn't," Brienne says. "You're not like her."

"We shared a womb and then we shared a bed," he says, as if that explains everything. "Cersei is hateful." He lets the words hang there for a moment before continuing "...and so am I."

Brienne's eyes are very bright, her mouth a tight knot of despair but she doesn't weep. "No," she whispers. 

"I'm sorry," Jaime says. "Stay here. Watch over Sansa as you vowed to. You'll find a better man than me. I'm sorry."

"Stop saying that!" she pleads, she puts her hand on his golden wrist. There are tears in her eyes and she blinks once, angrily, to dash them away. "How could you change your mind? Only hours ago you told me you loved me, hours ago, you wanted me to be your wife! Jaime, don't you love me?

He puts his good hand on hers, slides his thumb over her wrist bone. He does love her. He loves her more than the wide world. He wants her to be his wife. But more than those things he wants her to live.

"I'm sorry," he says again and swings up onto his horse. 

He doesn't look back, he imagines her pale face, candle-bright in the darkness. He imagines he can hear her calling his name in vain. But all he hears is the fierce northern wind as he urges his horse on. _Ash on the slow wind,_ Bran said. _If she goes with you, she will perish in the flames._ There's a strange cold feeling deep in his belly, a bell-like ringing in his ears, it's a sound he associates with running Aerys through, with riding north–away from Cersei. It's the sound of Brienne's heart breaking. And with it, his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to whereitwillgo and samsylviasmoustache!!
> 
> The last scene with Jaime leaving Brienne was slightly borrowed from the Stephen Frears version of Dangerous Liaisons starring John Malkovich. I watched it at about 14 and it made a huge huge impression on me. In the film he leaves Mme. de Tourvel despite still being in love with her on the grounds that it's beyond his control. So this is sort of the Braime version of it.


End file.
